


i'll give you my best side, tell you all my best lies

by Goumaden, shantealeaves



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Established Relationship, Fake Dating, Fake Real Fake Dating, M/M, Marriage, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Real Fake Real Dating, Spoilers, Time Travel, having a mortgage (derogatory), mawwiage is what bwings us togewah today, rivalry fueled pissing contest bullshit, sad shower wanks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29012766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goumaden/pseuds/Goumaden, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shantealeaves/pseuds/shantealeaves
Summary: Today is Friday, November 13, 2026, state the search results.2026. This can't be happening.He opens the phone camera with shaking fingers. His face is reflected on the screen, but it's not his face, it's older and more angular and his bedhead's a completely different sort of mess than what he's used to. Which means—which means—Akira Kurusu wakes up ten years in the future, blissfully married to his would-be murderer.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 92
Kudos: 317





	1. Akira

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapters in this fic alternate POVs:**  
>  ☆ Akira chapters written by [Goumaden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goumaden/pseuds/Goumaden)  
> ☆ Goro chapters written by [Shanti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shantealeaves/works)

When it comes down to it, the only reason that Akira wakes up at all is because the early morning sunlight slanting down through the window is hitting him directly in the eyes. His room is chilly—fucking freezing, actually, November as a concept should be outlawed entirely—but he’s warm and downright cozy beneath the pile of blankets he’s tucked himself under and the space heater he’s currently curled around.

He stretches, blissfully content, shifting his head away from the thin slice of winter sunshine pooling over his pillow and tucking his chin over the shoulder of the space heater instead. _Much better_. The sun’s out of his eyes at this angle, and it’s far easier for Akira to bury his face in the silky hair tickling his cheek and breathe in deeply. Fuck, it smells incredibly good—vetiver and something flowery intermingled with the scent of clean skin and sweat. Akira could stay here forever, warm and drowsy and barely conscious, and remain completely and utterly satisfied until the inevitable heat death of the universe.

...He _should_ probably get up, though, since the Phantom Thieves made plans to infiltrate Sae Niijima’s palace today. Akira usually hates Sunday infiltrations, but the deadline's coming up fast and they're running out of time to get to the manager's floor, so he extricates himself with great reluctance from the warm weight beneath the blankets next to him. He sits up and yawns, rubbing his eyes open, and—

He freezes immediately in numb horror, ice-cold paralysis spiking through his veins. He's in bed with _Goro Akechi_. Goro Akechi—the same Goro Akechi who's planning to murder him in cold blood in a little over a week—is in bed with him. Goro Akechi is _under the blankets_ with him. Goro Akechi is fast asleep, and also shirtless, and apparently entirely willing to let Akira wrap his arms around him and bury his face in his neck and huff his hair like a sharpie marker.

Oh _God_.

He takes a quick look around—he doesn't recognize the room he's in at all, but it's definitely a bedroom. There's the bed he slept in, obviously, with an antique wooden nightstand pushed up against his side of it. The bed itself has an actual supportive mattress with a real bed frame—no lumps or shitty crates propping it up like his futon at Leblanc. Across the room, there's a dresser, a cluttered desk, and a neatly ironed shirt hanging from what must be the closet door.

_So… Akechi's apartment? But…_

It's in line with Akechi's tastes, to be sure. The furniture is elegantly coordinated, the room is well-organized and spacious, and the dove grey carpet even appears to have been freshly vacuumed. But the dresser is covered in useless trinkets and photo frames, and the desk is even worse. Akechi never struck Akira as the type to keep mementos. He'd mentioned his lonely childhood in foster care and resulting lack of friends to Akira multiple times. _Why would he have so many keepsakes?_

He turns down to look at Akechi, who's shifted beside him in his sleep with a soft little sigh, freeing his upper body from the pile of blankets.

_Wait just a fucking second._

It's not Akechi. The person sleeping next to him _isn't Goro Akechi_. He's a dead ringer for him at first glance; they share the exact shade of dusty brown hair and similar fine-boned facial features. But the stranger's hair is off—it's a few inches longer than it should be, spilling across the tops of his shoulders rather than barely brushing the edges. And his exposed torso is too thick—it's muscular, filled out, nowhere near as gaunt as Akira remembers from the precious few trips he took with Akechi to the bathhouse.

His face isn't Akechi's either. It has the same idol-perfect features, but…solidified, somehow. Firmer. Handsome, rather than delicate. There's a stronger set to the jaw, and the stranger lacks Akechi's ever-present (though carefully concealed) dark undereye circles. If Akechi wasn't a living breathing Hallmark channel sob story starring a lonely orphan, Akira would swear that he'd just discovered Akechi's older brother. His _stupidly_ hot older brother. His stupidly, _inexcusably_ hot older brother.

…Which makes him think about Akechi, and the charming, disingenuous remarks he would make if he ever found out that Akira was involved in a situation like this with his doppelgänger. Akechi had just invited him to the jazz club earlier that week, too—sat there virtuously with his non-alcoholic drink for two full sets and made polite small talk with Akira without his picture-perfect smile ever once reaching his eyes. But if he knew—

"Really, Kurusu-kun," Akechi would say pleasantly, seated beside Akira at the club, his composure completely unruffled. "I can assure you I had no idea that you were capable of such depraved acts." Then his lovely smile would sharpen, and he'd lean in to murmur softly against the shell of Akira's ear, "You'd really be willing to accept such a low-grade substitute?" And then—

Fuck, Akira _really_ needs to kick his gigantic crush on his would-be murderer. He swallows, mouth suddenly bone-dry, and moves to tuck the covers back over Not-Akechi's body before his hormones make him do something absolutely idiotic. In the second before he re-settles the duvet and blankets, he sees something glinting on the fingers of Not-Akechi's hands. A ring.

A _wedding_ ring. Silver, with rubies and tiny black diamonds that wink in the morning sunlight.

Oh, _holy shit_.

Akira's in bed with him—a stranger who he's never met and knows nothing about—a stranger who he's apparently _slept with_ , even if he has no memories of the situation—a _married_ stranger, which means he's inadvertently become some kind of _homewrecker_ —

He's silently panicking, shaking his head soundlessly. _No, no, no. I don't remember any of this._ The movement causes an unruly section of hair to flop down over one of his eyes. He pushes it aside in irritation, and—

Akira has a matching ring on his finger.

A slow, sickeningly awful realization dawns on him. There's a phone charging on the nightstand next to him, a make and model he's never seen before. He picks it up and checks the date on the lock screen.

November 13th, but it's a Friday instead of a Sunday.

The phone, just as he guesses, unlocks with his fingerprint.

He pulls up a new internet tab, acid spilling up into his throat, and types "what year is it" into the built-in search engine.

Today is Friday, November 13, 2026, state the search results.

 _2026,_ Akira thinks. _It's 2026. This can't be happening._

He opens the phone camera with shaking fingers. His face is reflected on the screen, but it's _not_ his face, it's older and more angular and his bedhead's a completely different sort of mess than what he's used to. Which means—which means—

 _A coma? One of Futaba's awful isekai animes? No, that can't be right_. He's in a house instead of a hospital, for starters. And if he was comatose for a decade, there's no way he could have gotten married to….

Akira flushes an awful, lurid shade of pink and buries his face in his hands. "Fuck," he mumbles.

Akechi stirs next to him.

Akira's brain goes into bullet time.

First, and most importantly, he doesn't fully understand where he is or how he got here. He'll need a better understanding of the situation before he can escape it. What's his life like a decade in the future? Do the Phantom Thieves still exist? Is he still a part of them? Is _Akechi_ still a part of them? He'll definitely need to utilize future Akechi as a source of information, considering his exposure to the Metaverse and his unexpected proximity to future Akira.

But if 18-year-old Akechi is razor-sharp and deadly, then his 28-year-old self must be exponentially more formidable. If Akechi didn't manage to kill Akira after Sae's palace, he might now be gearing up for his second murder attempt—or his third, or his _fiftieth_.

Then again, maybe Akechi was brought to a shaky truce with Phantom Thieves by the end of the palace. Maybe they forcibly stopped him or managed to change his heart. Maybe Akechi, unspeakably and against all odds, genuinely fell in love with Akira and spared him.

There are far too many uncertainties.

The worst uncertainty of all is that despite his own best efforts, he still lacks a fundamental understanding of Goro Akechi. If the two of them _are_ in love here, he has no idea how badly this future Akechi would react if Akira revealed himself to be an impostor inhabiting the body of his husband.

…Murderously, probably? Akira can't let that happen.

That means the best way for him to gather information will be to pretend like he belongs here. He'll have to masquerade as the Akira of this world—an Akira who cuddles up intimately against Goro Akechi in the mornings and apparently loves him enough to marry him. An Akira who can't possibly slip up, because Akechi is a goddamn detective serial killer who could easily knot Akira's own intestines around his throat in a stylish bow if he realizes Akira isn't who he says he is.

 _Which is still kind of hot, honestly,_ he thinks. And then, as Akechi stifles a tiny noise: _Fuck. He's awake._

Akechi blinks open his eyes sleepily, making no move to sit up. Akira gently tucks the hair fanning across the pillow back behind his ear.

"Good morning," he says softly. "Do you want coffee?"

It's a bit of a risky bet to make since he hasn't seen the kitchen yet, but if his future self doesn't have at _least_ two drippers and a French press he'd rather get caught out and killed immediately than be forced to subsist on instant coffee.

Akechi squints up at him, still drowsy and disoriented, and it’s so unexpectedly _cute_ that Akira has a sudden, visceral urge to lean down and kiss him. It's a one-sided battle that he's rapidly losing—Akechi is unbearably domestic against the sheets of the bed with crease-lines from his pillow imprinted on his cheek, and they’re supposedly married, and it's not _Akira's_ fault if Akechi looks like he decided to print a list of every single one of Akira’s stupid morning-after G-rated cuddle fantasies and check off every single box.

Akira leans in the tiniest fraction just as Akechi sits up and says "Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabs his phone from where it's charging, and leaves.

_So much for having a husband._

Until Akechi sticks his head back through the door and adds "Oh, coffee sounds great!"

Then he's gone again.

The entire experience is weirdly plasticine. It feels like he's abruptly started interacting with Goro Akechi, beloved television personality and saintly second coming of the Detective Prince, instead of the unguarded, vulnerable version of Akechi he woke up next to.

Akira sincerely hopes it isn't indicative of the state of their marriage.

Then again, when he considers the way they slept curled around each other like kittens, their marriage seems to be doing just fine. Maybe they're in the middle of a petty fight over something and Akechi's just trying to get under his skin by unleashing a healthy dose of passive aggression. That, or Akira's already made 28-year-old Akechi suspicious by wearing his husband's skin like some kind of bog monster.

Neither of these possibilities is particularly desirable. Both of them are going to need coffee to defuse. _Better head downstairs and get started on that._

He disentangles himself from the blankets—fuck, fuck _,_ it's cold _, fuck—_ and immediately checks the closet to find something warmer to wear than pajamas. But the closet looks like an accounting firm threw up in it; all the shirts are sorted by color and sub-organized by collar style _and_ there's an honest-to-god shoe rack hanging on the inside of the door. Everything there definitely belongs to Akechi. Akira gingerly closes the door and checks the dresser instead.

 _Oh, thank God_. The clothes in the drawers undoubtedly belong to him—a little wrinkled, not the best folding job, but still completely serviceable. He's just finishing getting dressed for the day, wrapping a scarf over his sweater to ward off the chill, when the photos framed on top of the dresser catch his eye.

The one on the far left is Ann and Shiho. Even with their hair down and several years older, they're both unmistakable. The two of them are lounging on beach chairs in matching swimsuits, the ocean lit up behind them in a brilliant, syrupy burst of gold, and Ann's lowering her heart-shaped sunglasses to wink at the camera.

Next to them is a snapshot of Ryuji and Haru, holding the chubbiest baby Akira's ever seen, both of them with grins so bright that they outshine the sun. And just to the right—

To the right, there's a picture of Akira and Akechi dressed to the nines, Akechi in a cream-colored suit and Akira in a black one. Akira picks it up to examine it more closely. They're holding hands; Akechi isn't wearing his gloves. It's clearly a candid from the way they're staring at each other and not the camera—Akechi's eyes are blazing fiercely with pride, and Akira's making that stupid little half-smile he always does whenever he's trying not to cry and failing miserably.

They look like the answer to a question Akira didn't even know he was capable of asking.

They look so in love with each other that it hurts.

His heart does an idiotic little backflip in his chest, pumping something warm and anxious through his veins. He hears Akechi—no, _Goro_ , they're married, he's holding their goddamn _wedding photo,_ he's Goro to Akira now, _Goro_ —turn on the sink in the bathroom, so he gently places the photo back on the dresser and heads downstairs to finally make coffee.

  


* * *

  


The kitchen is inexplicably familiar to Akira. He's never seen it before, but somehow it just feels _right_ , like it was organized specifically to suit his tastes. When he looks in the cabinet he'd store his favorite coffee brewing equipment in, it's there. When he checks the wall-mounted shelving, there are multiple ceramic jars of coffee beans bookended by potted plants. On the most spacious countertop, exactly where Akira would put it, there's a coffee grinder set up next to a siphon.

 _…Yeah, no_. Despite countless hours of begging and pleading and huge wibbling puppy-dog eyes, Sojiro still refuses to let Akira use any of Leblanc's siphons. Something about not respecting pour-overs enough. Which is complete garbage—Akira's done so many pour-overs at this point that he sees coffee blooms etched behind his eyelids whenever he closes his eyes at night—but it's Sojiro's café, and Sojiro's equipment, and he also lets Akira drink whatever he wants for free even if he pretends to give him hell for it. So! Pour-overs it is.

The siphon goes back in the cabinet. Hopefully his future self hasn't given 28-year-old Goro some kind of terribly refined palate. _God only knows he's pretentious enough already_. He replaces the siphon with the most cheerful mug he can find, an oversized one patterned with calico cats, and tops it with a sunny yellow dripper; grinding, brewing, and blooming coffee is second nature to him at this point. Thankfully, one of the jars of beans is labelled "GORO ♡" in Akira's spidery handwriting, so he just uses that blend and makes a second cup for himself in the background to reverse-engineer Goro's favorite flavor profile.

There's another jar on the shelf labelled "NOT GORO ♡" in Akira's handwriting. He doesn't want to ask.

Goro's still rummaging around upstairs, so Akira hops up to sit on the kitchen counter, taking a sip from his own mug as he checks his fancy new phone. The coffee's decent. It's a lighter roast—bright and acidic, with strong winey undertones and the faintest aftertaste of something fruity. Not what Akira would usually go for, but very…Goro, in its own way. Clean and single-mindedly to the point. An unexpected tang, like licking a particularly feisty battery. And at the very end, just as the flavor is fading on his tongue, a tiny hint of sweetness. He wonders idly if 27-year-old Akira put the blend together for him from scratch.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

**REMINDER: SHIFT AT SHIBUYA FLORAL AT 11 AM**

Huh. He's employed. He's employed and he works a shitty part-time gig at the local flower shop, apparently. Hopefully it's a front for some kind of crime ring or he's a trophy husband whose only purpose is to look hot, because he doesn't even want to _think_ about what the monthly mortgage on a house in Tokyo must be.

Speaking of which, where is he? Where is this job? It had better be accessible through public transit—even on the off-chance that future Akira can drive and owns a car, present-day Akira doesn't trust himself within a meter of any kind of steering wheel. Not since the last Monabus accident.

He's just pulled up the maps app on his newfangled phone— _extremely_ disappointing because it functions just the one he uses in 2016 and doesn't spit any kind of cool holograms or laser projections onto the wall—and finished working out the trains he's going to take and when he has to leave the house when his phone vibrates again. It's a chat message this time.

INFORMATION KIOSK 2: scrump rumpus

  


Akira scrolls upwards through his conversation with INFORMATION KIOSK 2, growing progressively more bewildered.

COFFEE STAND 1: scrump rumpus

INFORMATION KIOSK 2: scrump rumpus

COFFEE STAND 1: scrump rumpus

INFORMATION KIOSK 2: scrump rumpus

COFFEE STAND 1: scrump rumpus

INFORMATION KIOSK 2: scrump rumpus

  


There's at least fifty of these nonsensical messages in a row, and all of them have been sent over a period of the last three days.

Akira gingerly leaves the conversation on read and closes the app.

Then he thinks better of it, and tabs back through his chats to see if there's anything useful he can pick up about his future self from his message history. Thank _fuck_ that Goro's contact name in his phone is just "Goro".

The most recent text was sent yesterday:

Akira: if you're on your way home from the birthday party, can you get me one of those awful juice drinks they sell by the station? extra spinach please

Goro: No.

Akira: and yet one seems to have shown up in the break room anyway. curious

  


Akira scrolls past a few "have a good day at work" messages, "I love you" messages, and reminders for chores and appointments. An exchange from a few days ago catches his eye:

Akira: what was that? are you okay?

Goro: I'm fine.

Akira: and the screaming was??

Goro: ...

Akira: oh, sorry, my mistake. someone else must have broken into our home and taken up residence in our bedroom just to scream there was it another house centipede?

Goro: ...Perhaps.

Akira: I'm coming up to save you my prince my beloved DETECTIVE prince tokyo's two-year-in-a-row number one teen heartthrob

Goro: Fuck you.

Akira: the noblest sleuth there ever was a truly aristocratic private eye his eminence, a sherlock for a new age

Goro: AKIRA KURUSU THERE IS A CENTIPEDE ON MY DESK  


Then there's more embarrassingly domestic slice-of-life messages. A photo of a cat Akira saw in a bookstore. A scathing diatribe Goro unleashed against Akira for accidentally buying B-grade eggs. A snapshot of Akira shirtless on a bed and Goro responding in interest—Akira scrolls past that conversation so fast he nearly throws his phone across the room. He lands on an exchange from two weeks ago that's distinctly curious in its ambiguity. _If 28-year-old Goro is upset with 27-year-old Akira, could this be the reason?_

Goro: Akira, it's November.

Akira: sure is, good work detective

Goro: I think you should take time off work.

Akira: and do what? go on a vacation? I'll take you to destinyland if you promise to wear the mouse ears

Goro: Stop playing this off as trivial.

Akira: there's nothing wrong. you don't need to treat me with kid gloves every november, goro. I'm fine

Goro: Oh, that's positively rich coming from the man who handles me like I'm tissue paper every December.

Akira: that's different

Goro: It's not.

Goro: I have to take a call now, but when you get home, we're going to discuss this.  


Akira looks even further back, through planning for Ann's birthday party and multiple notifications for an online chess game, but neither future Akira nor Goro ever allude to what the issue _was_.

He hears Goro at the top of the stairs and hastily pockets his phone. He's only got a few more minutes before he has to leave for his shift—he can be Goro Akechi's loving and supportive (trophy?) husband for that long, definitely probably maybe.

Goro looks sleepy, drowsy and inattentive in a way that seems like he's still not completely awake. He's wrapped a stupid fluffy robe over his pajamas, and when he finally makes it to the bottom of the stairs, he squints at Akira and the cat-patterned coffee mug he's holding like he's never seen a beverage before in his life. He's a striking antithesis to the pristinely put-together, thoroughly artificial Goro that Akira spends his time with; this Goro looks so unpolished and vulnerable and _real_ that Akira's heart aches.

Akira presses the mug of coffee into Goro's hands. The action feels good, right, like it's exactly what he _should_ be doing. And when he leans in automatically to kiss Goro afterwards, it feels just as natural, like it's an established routine they've gone through a thousand times before.

Akira's first thought is that Goro's lips are much softer than he expected.

His second thought is more along the lines of _holy fucking shit that's GORO AKECHI._

He pulls back—not too fast, even though every muscle in his body is screaming for him to take a running jump through the nearest window—and says, cheerfully, "I've got my shift at the florist now. I'll be back around dinner. Text me if you need anything!"

Then he grabs the closest coat off the rack and books it out the front door before 28-year-old Goro can respond.

It isn't until Akira's gotten on the train that he finally, _finally_ allows himself to freak out, sinking into an empty seat and burying his face in his hands. He's married. He's married to his rival-turned-attempted-murderer. He's married to his rival-turned-attempted murderer, and they wear matching wedding rings and sleep in the same bed every night and kiss every morning when Akira makes coffee. Which means Goro loves him back. Goro, at some point, reciprocates Akira's idiotic teenage crush.

The thought is simultaneously tender and terrifying. Akira takes a deep, shuddering breath.

 _Fuck. Okay._ He needs to shove his personal feelings aside for as long as it takes. He can do this. He can _do this._ He's been through far worse—he's survived false accusations and being arrested; he's managed to thrive even after being shipped off to an unfamiliar city. He's dealt with countless murderous shadows and otherworldly threats. He can't break down here.

He can do this.

Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is not canonically compliant with Persona 5, because what Akira _really_ would do upon being trapped in this situation would be to look up every single stock market spoiler and Get Rich Quick. Please pardon this absolutely heinous inconsistency.
> 
> Also, I firmly believe that every meme will be downright incomprehensible ten years in the future. This is my hill and I'm dying on it.
> 
> Thank you for reading!! (ˉ▽ˉ；)...


	2. Goro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating has changed! Oh Akechi, we're really in it now.

Goro never lingers halfway between sleep and wakefulness; he trained himself out of that a long time ago. Growing up in institutions—where he was always desperate for more time to sleep, where lingering sleepily in bed too long meant punishment for laziness and having his few possessions stolen—killed that childish habit quickly.

So when Goro wakes up in a hazy state of semi-consciousness, floating somewhere dark and comfortable just barely above sinking back into sleep, it is extraordinarily unusual.

All he can take in at the moment is pure sensation. Warmth. Safety. Arms around him, comforting and anchoring, until they aren’t anymore— _wait, come back._ He curls himself towards where they used to be, nestling into something equally soft and pleasant smelling that he would bury his face in if it would just stop _moving_.

He lets out a small noise from the back of his throat to convey his subconscious displeasure. Then he blinks his eyes open, just a little, squinting through sleep-clouded eyes to see a hazy form above him.

“Good morning,” a deep, sleep-husky voice asks him. “Do you want coffee?”

Fingers card through his hair.

That’s what finally does it—even half-asleep, he knows that sort of soft, adoring touch is never meant for him. It shocks him awake, and all of those pleasant feelings evaporate instantaneously. They’re replaced by panic—immediate, all-consuming panic.

 _Who’s in my apartment,_ he thinks, and then, _Where’s my gun?_

He doesn’t reach for it. By then he’s blinked the sleep out of his eyes enough to see what’s in front of him.

It’s—Akira? 

_No, it’s not Akira—except it looks kind of like—no, shut up, figure it out later, **move.**_

And it’s not his apartment. 

_Then whose apartment is it?—he’s never had a one night stand—why is Akira-not-Akira so calm about this—shut up, figure it out later, get out **now**_.

_Focus. Don’t let them know you’re scared. And get **out.**_

Goro, having remained perfectly still through his panic, sits up as calmly as he can and pastes a smile on his face. “Excuse me,” he says pleasantly, “I have to use the bathroom.”

The voice is _not his._

Panic rises anew in a nauseating wave the moment he hears the strange sounds coming out of his mouth, but—later _._ He can’t succumb to it. Right now he has to move; he can panic _later._

He throws the covers off himself and hops out of bed. Instinctively, he grabs his phone off the bedside table— _where’s my phone, this is **not** my phone, take it anyway_—and walks across the room. Only once he’s nearly out the door does he add, “Oh, coffee sounds great!” as politely as he can before shutting the bedroom door behind him.

He practically runs into the bathroom, shuts the door, locks it, and braces his whole body weight against it just in case anyone tries to knock it down. It’s only when he’s certain that there are no footsteps on the other side of the door that he lets himself slide to the ground, grabbing a towel from the rack on his way down.

He buries his face in it and lets out the quietest, most muffled scream that he can.

Goro breathes and focuses on nothing except the laborious process of forcing air in and out of his lungs—expand and contract, in and out, nothing else—until he can finally separate his thoughts out from the panicked thumping of his pulse in his ears. He holds the towel to his face, and he focuses on nothing but his breathing. In and out. Just breathing. He breathes until everything’s quiet again, and the world is just him and the darkness of the disturbingly plush towel.

Once he feels slightly more in control, he lets himself consider everything that he’s seen this morning. Lays out all the evidence in front of him, like it’s just another case to solve, and thinks.

First, the person in bed with him. Akira? Definitely not Akira, but someone who looked so very much like him—almost impossibly similar. The eyes were the first thing he noticed, and those were exactly the same—slate grey eyes with the darkest, longest eyelashes, his unnerving stare the first thing Goro saw on waking up. Those eyes were Akira’s, no doubt.

But everything else was slightly off. The face was missing that tiniest bit of baby fat that Goro had never even realized Akira had until he’d seen a nearly identical face without it. And his hair—a little longer, a little messier, hair that kind of looked—

_Like it had been pulled all night, like someone had grabbed Akira-not-Akira by the hair and manhandled him, and was that you? Was that **me**?_

It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it before, of course; someone who was always mussing up his already-tousled hair as much Akira did was practically begging to have someone grab a fistful of it and— _and this line of thinking is **exceedingly** unhelpful, _Goro thinks as he forces those thoughts away.

But it was true—it was like someone had taken everything that made the Akira who Goro knew so devastatingly, miserably attractive, and turned it up to one hundred. The parts of Akira that already featured prominently in his most salacious dreams, _like that messy goddamn hair and strong arms bracketing him and eyes sparkling with desire as he—_

 _Not helpful_ , Goro reminds himself, burying his now-burning face even deeper in the towel.

Did he find some Akira-look-alike in a club and inexplicably decide to go home with him? Even ignoring the fact that picking up absolute strangers in bars is something he’s never done and never plans on doing, he has no memory of doing anything of the sort. Unless he’d had so much to drink that he blacked out for that entire portion of the night _—_ but in that case, he’d be having one of the worst hangovers of his life.

But he isn’t. He feels just fine; in fact, he feels rather better than fine, in a worn-out but well-rested sort of way that’s entirely unfamiliar with him but which nevertheless settles into his bones like it’s something his body is accustomed to. It feels kind of like he’d gone on a long bike ride the day before. Or did a few too many squats. _Or,_ his brain supplies helpfully, an image of Akira’s manhandled hair flashing in his mind, _or—_

Goro muffles a few more screams into the towel, and when it gets hard to breathe he drops the towel and grips his head in his hands instead.

Then he freezes. His hair—it’s different. Longer. Slightly thicker. Slightly...softer, somehow, though the layers aren’t as neat or freshly trimmed as he’s supposed to keep them. But—healthier?

Goro clambers to his feet to look in the mirror over the sink. And then he looks at his reflection and feels like he might collapse onto the floor again.

It isn’t him.

It is him?

The person in the bedroom was Akira but _wasn’t_ Akira, just the same way that this person in the mirror is him but _is most definitely not him._

He slides back down on the ground—he feels like he’s going to pass out if he looks in the mirror any longer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the phone that he’d snatched from the bedside table and picks it up. When he hesitantly puts his finger to the sensor, the print unlocks the phone.

_Mine. Not mine._

When the phone unlocks, it’s open halfway through the Wikipedia page on calcification. Goro swipes out of it immediately. The phone’s time reads 9:37 a.m., November 13. That’s all fine so far, but it neither confirms nor denies the hypothesis that’s slowly seeping into his mind. He opens the calendar app and hopes against hope that things will be normal, until he sees—

November 13, 2026.

Not 2016. _2026._

He’s in the future. He’s in the future, and—

He finally forces himself to look at the _thing_ on his finger, the little weight that he’s avoided thinking about but now sees in its full, terrible splendor: a silver band, shimmering with red and black gems.

He’s in the future, and he’s married to Akira.

Akira Kurusu, who is supposed to die on November 20, 2016. Akira Kurusu, who _will_ die on November 20, 2016, a date Goro knows by heart because he has spent every night for the last few weeks unable to sleep as he thinks about Akira—thinks about dying at 17—and tries not to throw up.

Somehow, having concrete proof validating that things are absolutely not as they should be makes Goro feel calmer.

This could be a dream. Or a vision, or something—some Metaverse fuckery, maybe, because it’s far more realistic than any dream he’s had before. In which case he just needs to...wake up.

Otherwise, what? He time travelled? He remembers the night before with perfect clarity: he’d finally given in to the dangerous, self-indulgent impulse that had been crawling under his skin for the past several days and texted Akira. They’d gone to Mementos. And then...he’d gone home, right? And fast-forwarded ten years into the future?

But that can’t be the case. This can’t be ten years from going to sleep last night, because Akira is not going to be alive ten years from last night. Akira is not going to be alive ten _days_ from last night, because when Goro does something he does it well. There’s no room for error. Without a doubt, Akira Kurusu is not going to live past 17.

Making this, what—an alternate universe? Some sort of guilt trip thing someone’s putting him through where he’s supposed to come to his senses and realize that being so _bad_ and _evil_ isn’t the only path, that he can still see the light, that he doesn’t have to destroy the only good thing he’s ever had in his life?

Regardless of the cause, he’s somehow in the year 2026, meaning that the Akira he woke up next to who asked him if he wanted coffee is...alive. 27 years old. His _husband._ And doesn’t seem to think anything is wrong. He woke up this morning and offered coffee to _his_ husband, Goro Akechi, who is 28 years old and to whom he probably offers coffee every morning. This is just a typical day of this Akira’s life.

Nothing good can come out of tipping this future Akira off that Goro isn’t _his_ Goro. This Akira especially can’t figure out why Goro so urgently needs to get back to his own timeline: so that he can fix what future Goro fucked up so spectacularly.

Because if he doesn’t, what would any of this mean? If he failed at killing Akira, it means he’s failed at taking down Shido, which means that everything he’s done—all the deaths and the deception and the suffering—will have been for nothing. If this Goro didn’t kill Akira ten years ago, then his whole life was wasted. It doesn’t matter if he got an extra ten years and a pretty house and a pretty garden.

His entire life and his entire sense of justice will have come to nothing, and that is something he is certain that no Goro Akechi in any year or any universe would stand for. He’s certain his future self will understand; he has to go back so he can finally, properly, kill Akira.

But that’s not something this future Akira would probably be too amenable to, is it?

So he’s on his own. He’s the only one he can rely on for figuring out how to get back—but he’s used to that. This is just another case to investigate, a mystery to solve, and therefore the first step is obvious: he needs to collect evidence. Not just on what brought him here to the future and any clues as to how he might get back, but also clues on how to pass as the rightful inhabitant of this body. He needs to act thoroughly and convincingly like Goro Akechi, Akira’s 28-year-old husband.

He is, of course, entirely capable of that. Goro has long since mastered acting older and calmer and happier than he truly is; he knows exactly how to take cues from those around him on how they want him to act. He’s practically a natural at it.

Still, it’ll help to get as much background information as he can. This phone— _his_ phone _,_ there’s no more room for wishy-washiness, it’s _his_ —is a good start and should give him enough to get through the morning. Then he can scour the house for every shred of evidence to figure out who this Goro Akechi is.

He’s a detective, an actor, a goddamn natural—Akira won’t suspect a thing. He’ll do whatever he needs to do, performing the role of Akira Kurusu’s loving husband perfectly, so that he can go back to his own time and—

And kill him.

Goro swallows.

He’s not quite ready to face this Akira yet.

The phone—right. He can afford a few more moments here in the bathroom; he was going to start with the phone.

The most important and difficult thing will be figuring out how this Goro behaves around Akira. Clearly, he’s changed more than a little bit in the past ten years; the ring around his finger is just the shiniest bit of evidence. He needs to figure out what performing “husband” looks like for this Goro, because Akira will notice immediately if he doesn’t get within the ballpark of their normal.

A good place to start is seeing how they talk to each other. Goro opens up the phone’s messaging app. Akira’s at the top of the list, but the text history isn’t as desolate as he’s used to it being. He can examine who else he’s been texting later.

The more he scrolls up through his and Akira’s messages, the more things alarm him.

His messages to Akira are...unexpected. Sarcastic. Sometimes straight-up mean? _”You bought the wrong brand of eggs again, you absolute imbecile,”_ he wrote a few days ago, to which Akira just responded with a string of heart emojis. If his first guess was that Akira wanted to marry the charming Detective Prince, that’s clearly not who he’s ended up with.

The first time he sees a casual _“I love you”_ thrown out from his side of the chat, he flinches. And the more he scrolls up, the more it keeps happening.

More sarcasm. More insults. More texts of Akira laughing at his rude observations about some people Goro’s never heard of. More—

Oh god.

Why—what—

Why did Akira send him a shirtless selfie with his pants half-unbuttoned and a hand lingering on his stomach, his fingers teasing their way down towards his waistband?

Why did Goro send him a selfie of his own _before that,_ laying on their bed and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist with his wet hair splayed indecently across the pillow?

Goro scrolls up to the start of the conversation.

  


Akira: I miss you…

Goro: It’s only been two days.

Akira: yeah, but…

Goro: Thinking about me? [Load Image] Because I’m thinking about you.

Akira: oh motherfuck [Load Image]

  


Oh, motherfuck _indeed._

Akira—

_Akira—_

Akira is certainly going to notice if Goro stays in the bathroom for much longer. So Goro needs to leave. And stop scrolling through the texts. _Now._

But first he splashes water on his face a few times until his cheeks feel like they’re no longer at imminent risk for spontaneous combustion.

He figures he has a few minutes until Akira finishes the coffee. He’ll pull some clothes on and focus on his most important objective—where does his future self keep his gun? Once he knows that, he’ll feel a little safer. Then he’ll be ready to take on the real question: what is lingering underneath this facade of _calm?_

Goro knows far too much of the world to believe that the idyllic life his future self seems to be living is actually as it appears. There must be something beneath all of it, something rotten lurking just under the surface. Maybe this Goro is on the run from something, or—maybe he’s the one with the plan. Perhaps marrying Akira was some long-con to get Akira truly vulnerable before finally taking him out?

There’s something going on, Goro knows it. If he doesn’t figure out what it is soon, _he’ll_ be the one in danger, before he can even figure out how to get home.

He opens the door to the bedroom and immediately starts checking for weapons and traps, anything he can use and anything that may signal a conspiracy. His gaze is frantic and indiscriminate, trying to scan the whole room at once—until he sees what’s on top of the dresser and suddenly can’t tear his eyes away.

Photos. Nearly a dozen, all neatly framed and lined up atop the dresser. The one that catches Goro’s eye at first, front and center, is a wedding photo. _His_ wedding photo. As Goro walks closer, he takes in the details: Goro in a cream-colored suit and Akira in a dark one, lost in a world that exists only between the two of them. The other photos in the rows feature all of Akira’s friends in various permutations and some strangers Goro’s never met. There are plenty of photos of the Phantom Thieves all together, where Goro, unexpectedly, is standing among them like he belongs there.

Looking at all this fake joy and false relationships his future self has cultivated makes him feel sick to his stomach. It’s clear that none of the people in the photos know anything about Goro, about who he _truly_ is. If they did, they wouldn’t be posing with such bright and carefree smiles next to him.

Goro turns away from the dresser and opens the closet. It’s well organized and obviously contains only his clothes, leaving Goro briefly wondering where Akira keeps his things before deciding that he doesn’t care. His future self has good taste—expensive taste—in clothes, Goro will give him that. But he’s not here for clothes right now; he only has so much time before Akira will expect him downstairs. He has to find his gun.

He goes to the side of the bed he woke up on, and crouches down to look in the drawers of the nightstand. Maybe he built some hidden compartments in, something even Akira wouldn’t have noticed—

The drawer is nearly overflowing with dildos, a few clearly well-used bottles of lube, and some neatly tied red rope.

Goro slams the drawer shut. 

He doesn’t want to think about _any_ of that. Fuck the gun; time to get his coffee.

Goro studiously does not think about the drawer as he pulls on a fluffy white robe. He definitely does not think about the purple dildo with the swirly pattern, or the big red one that looks like it vibrates, or the svelte black plug lying there innocently. As he makes his way downstairs he most certainly does _not_ think about the stickiness dribbling down the side of one of the bottles of lube. He couldn’t have had the drawer open for longer than three seconds, damn it, the image of that fucking red rope shouldn’t feel seared into his mind like a brand.

He’s so concertedly _not_ thinking about the contents of the drawer that he doesn’t even notice Akira is there to meet him at the bottom of the stairs, pushing a tall mug of coffee into Goro’s hands. 

A mug of coffee that Goro almost upends all over himself because Akira then leans in to _**kiss him** fuck fuck motherfucking fucker what the fuck—_

But with a wink and a statement about needing to rush off to his shift at the flower shop, Akira’s out the door.

Goro’s still clutching his coffee mug for dear life, his lips still absolutely burning from where _Akira had kissed him that absolute goddamn asshole—_

He sets the mug back on the kitchen counter. He feels too queasy to possibly drink any of it.

He pulls up his phone calendar again. Strange—it’s a Friday, but he doesn’t have any meetings or obligations lined up. Akira didn’t seem to be concerned that Goro wasn’t rushing out the door either. _So, no work on Fridays?_

Well, since he apparently has the time, he might as well pull himself together with a shower and some proper clothes. Maybe then he’ll feel a little more like himself.

Back upstairs he goes.

Just as Goro expected, the feeling of hot water on his skin is grounding. It’s a nice shower—a true tub, not like the cramped little stall with its dingy little showerhead in his own apartment. It’s spacious, and the water pressure is perfect, and the steaming heat leaves him calmer and more centered.

For about two minutes. And then he uses the body wash.

The body wash smells just like Akira had that morning—comforting and homey, like honey and cinnamon and something a little spicier. He’d never smelled anything like it on the Akira he knew—that Akira always smelled a little too strongly like the coffee shop for anything else to come through—but this somehow fits him perfectly, making him smell like something Goro wants to bury his face in and consume.

And the worst part was that when he woke up that morning, he’d been _allowed to._ Because as long as he’s in this body, he’s technically married to Akira— _married, what the fuck_ —which means that he can sleep as close to him as he wants to. He can nestle his face into his chest as much as he wants, taking in that scent until it drives him crazy with hunger, and when that’s no longer enough he can start devouring him, and Akira will _let_ him. He can press his teeth into the tender, creamy skin of his neck, just barely biting, and he can finally, _finally_ know what Akira tastes like...

 _Stop it_. He has to stop.

It feels wrong to even think these things. So wrong—his body might be wearing Akira’s wedding ring, but Goro himself _isn’t_ married to Akira. Goro is going to _kill_ Akira.

This Goro whose life he’s temporarily taking over—maybe he gets to cuddle Akira all night and wakes up cradled against his chest feeling safe and warm. Maybe this Goro even deserves it; maybe, somehow, this is a world where there’s no Shido and no conspiracy and he hasn’t done any of the things that have brought him beyond redemption, a world where everything is clean and simple and he can just have this.

That’s nice for this Goro. But _none of that is his._

What 18-year-old Goro has is a teenage Akira who maybe doesn’t even consider Goro a _friend._ Goro has flirted and batted his eyelashes and toyed with that Akira, yes, but always for the purpose of luring him closer and reeling him into the final trap.

All he has is an Akira who he is going to murder. It doesn’t matter how much he wishes things were different; it doesn’t matter how much he yearns for what this Goro has. It doesn’t matter that this future holds things he’s long deemed impossible for someone like him to have, things he’s never even bothered imagining having—the husband, the house, the happiness—and it certainly doesn’t matter that it also holds some things he _has_ guiltily imagined having—like an Akira whose neck he can bury his face into, whose skin he can taste and touch as much as he wants, who is _his._

None of that matters.

Goro goes back to showering. He avoids thinking about how hard he is. Or he tries, at least—but as he’s washing his legs and studiously avoiding giving his erection any attention, he can’t help but notice how neatly groomed his pubic hair is. Which is just a minor curiosity, really, compared to every other surprise he’s taken in stride this morning, and he’s ready to move past it when he realizes—

His asshole is waxed.

His. Asshole. Is. Waxed.

He, Goro Akechi, age 28, waxes his asshole.

Waxes his asshole because of _all the sex he has, apparently._

All the sex he has _with Akira Kurusu._

Suddenly he can’t _stop_ the images of those toys he’d found in the drawer from flooding his mind.

He can just imagine taking that red vibrating one and filling Akira up with it—maybe turning it on a low setting and thrusting it into him lazily just to tease him. He can imagine how Akira’s hole would stretch around it obscenely, how he’d _squirm._

Or maybe Goro liked to fill Akira up with that black plug. Had he ever forced Akira to wear it to work all day, staying all nice and loose so that Goro could fuck him as soon as he came home?

Or, fuck, the rope—Akira tied up with that rope, the thick crimson ties painting a vivid contrast against his pale skin until he started straining against it, the cord digging into his skin and leaving it an entirely different flushed shade of red.

Goro’s never been all that curious about sex toys, but all of a sudden he feels the most pressing need to know _exactly_ what they look like when used to subdue Akira Kurusu.

Goro is definitely touching himself now. Vigorously stroking his cock, eyes closed, and imagining all the ways he could touch Akira, all the ways Akira might touch him. And even if he will never be able to do so, not really, not with _his_ Akira—with this Akira, maybe he can.

It makes some part of Goro wonder if whatever _this_ Goro did to deserve this Akira—whatever part of himself he had to betray, whatever essential parts of himself he had to hack to pieces to get here—if maybe all of it was worth it. Because whatever this Goro had to do ended with him right here, with an Akira who is his, _all his, all fucking his, he has a ring to prove it—_

His hair. His messy fucking hair. Goro could pull it as much as he wanted. He has a feeling Akira likes that.

And oh, that goddamn picture. Goro had closed out of it in embarrassment but he’d still taken in every detail: Akira, lying in bed, hair messy like he’d been pulling it himself without Goro there to do it for him. Maybe it wasn’t enough; maybe he was so used to Goro’s touch that he was _desperate_ without it. Maybe he’d opened the picture Goro sent and was left in absolute agony with the need to touch himself, and maybe he’d then taken a picture to show that he was teasing himself exactly how he wanted Goro to tease him: fingers dancing over his waistband and gently undoing the buttons, taking his time tearing him apart…

Goro works his hand over his cock harder and harder as more images of unfairly, obscenely beautiful 27-year-old Akira fill his mind. Only it’s not just 27-year-old Akira he’s thinking of, is it? It’s _his_ Akira, his _Joker_ , who he’s taking apart. Piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. Until all he can do is beg.

Goro braces a hand against the cool tiles of the shower wall as he gasps for breath, hand working himself mercilessly. Suddenly, the thought occurs to Goro that their future selves have probably fucked in this shower, too. Probably just like this—Akira bent over right here, bracing himself against the edge of the tub with this ass up for Goro to pound into over and over again, claiming Akira as _his, his, all **his** — _

Goro comes hard, groaning Akira’s name and grateful no one’s around to hear it.

He comes down from his high almost as quickly as he’d worked himself up into it. He can hardly keep himself upright anymore, and he feels pathetic enough to sink down to sitting at the bottom of the tub. He holds his knees and hangs his head, letting the water pour over his body mournfully.

What the fuck is he doing?

He knows exactly what he _should_ be doing. He should be figuring out exactly how he got here so he can get back, and when he’s not doing that, he should be learning everything there is to know about his future self so he doesn’t give himself away.

And instead, here he is, jerking off to thoughts of the one person he can never have.

He feels disgusting. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? He will _never_ have Akira Kurusu. It doesn’t matter that he has a wedding ring that makes his heart clench every time he looks at it, or if he can imagine slipping into this life so easily. It doesn’t matter, because this, Goro knows, is a future that hinges on him not doing what he has to do. Not doing what’s _right._ 27-year-old Akira’s very existence hinges on a mistake that Goro is going to fix; he isn’t something Goro will ever _deserve._

And his own Akira, 17 years old with only one week left to live? It’s absolutely _vile_ that he’s touching himself to thoughts of someone who will die by that same hand. It doesn’t matter what Goro _wants;_ it doesn’t matter that Akira is the one good thing Goro’s ever had in his life.

He’s lived a full life of denying himself everything that would get in the way of his plan and his justice. He does not suddenly get to _have_ Akira Kurusu.

He should know this. He should be fighting his way towards his goal with everything he has, like he’s always done. He should be _better._ And instead, he’s—

God. What the _fuck_ is he doing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many of you totally called the "twist," that goro was sent back too; nevertheless goumaden and i had _so_ much fun reading all your responses and theories on the first chapter, so thank you so much for those!!
> 
> hope you enjoyed goro being an absolute disaster. i truly don't know how to write him any other way. see you next time!
> 
> -shanti
> 
> bonus:  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Evil twitter accounts for nefarious purposes:  
> [Goumaden](https://twitter.com/ShadowCathedraI) ⬥ [Shanti](https://twitter.com/shantealeaves)


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